


Scarlet Studies

by starluff



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angst, Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Holmes is annoying, non-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:11:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3334652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starluff/pseuds/starluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So we see Holmes and Watson as established friends but how did that happen? How did their first meeting go?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarlet Studies

**Author's Note:**

> Just as the summary says, this is how I imagined this version of Holmes' and Watson's first meeting to go. Inspired by STUD.

It wasn't going to change. No matter how much Watson glared at the admittedly-innocent door, it was not going to change his situation one jot. It would not alter the fact that he invalided from the army due to a shoulder wound. It would not alter the fact that he was unemployed with no source of income save his pension. And it would definitely not alter the fact that this was his only option.

Admittedly, this chance was a stroke of luck. After being thrown out of the hotel he had been staying in due to a bar fight (which included five broken chairs, one destroyed table, three broken bear mugs, and five men in the hospital) he had been forced to stay in another, far more expensive hotel. He would be broke in less than three weeks if he stayed, and that was without taking into account any additional expenses.

All in all, one has to admit that this was a pretty good turn of fate. After all, he now had a roof above his head (and a rather nice house under it, if he may say so) without having to empty his wallet and if the person who made all that possible was an insufferable, manipulative git, well, he only had himself to blame.

So Watson straightened his back and, with the resigned air of a man going to his death (he didn't even realize he had it), knocked on the door.

An elderly lady answered the door and, when Watson said he was here to speak to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, got a curious expression, a mix of disgust and eagerness. Watson could hardly blame her. The landlady disappeared inside (without inviting the doctor) and presently, _he_ appeared.

On the way to lunch with Stamford the other day, Stamford realized he had forgotten his coat with his wallet inside at the hospital. Loathe to leave the only friendly face he had seen since arriving in London (and, if Watson were completely honest with himself, a chance of free lunch) Watson went back with him to retrieve the coat.

They heard him before they saw him.

" _Yes!"_ Was the exclamation the two doctors heard, as Stamford had just put his hand on the door knob to the room. They traded confused looks before entering the room. Inside, they found a man with messy dark hair, looking as if he had been running his hands through it all day, and brown eyes that shown with a manic light. He bounced on the balls of his feet and rubbed his palms together, muttering, "I've found it," giving Watson the impression that he was charged with the energy of three men. That was what Watson gathered in the split second before the man looked up and locked eyes with him. There was something about the look that made the ex-army medico feel uneasy and want to hide, as if he was being sized up or having his thoughts read. Naturally, wanting to hide made him straiten his back into a military posture and glare at the man in warning. Which only made the man smile, a small, amused smile that Watson did not at all care for. It was gone before Watson was even sure it was there.

"I've found it!" He cried, holding a bottle aloft as if there was something life-changing in it, his former amused smile replaced with a broad grin, like a child who had just gotten his favorite candy. "I have found a re-agent which is precipitated by hoemoglobin, and by nothing else."

Flustered and seeming eager to leave, Stamford quickly made the introductions, "Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Holmes, you wouldn't happen to have seen my coat...?"

But he may as well have been talking to the wall for all the attention this Holmes payed him. For whatever reason, his eyes had locked onto Watson and he crossed over to him until he was standing a little too close for comfort. Watson took a step back to make some space. Holmes simply took a step closer. "Do you realize the significance of this discovery?" He demanded excitedly. Watson tried again to make some distance (with a bit more success this time) and thought of Holmes's words. Precipitates hoemoglobin... hm.

"It is interesting chemically," he admitted, somewhat reluctant, "but practically..."

Again Holmes got an expression Watson did not care for: he smiled, as if Watson had just fallen for some bait. And again, it left quickly, and he was back to his giddy childishness, and he went off to describe just how important this discovery was; he gave an example of how you could tell if a brownish stain was blood by this discovery; he took a few minutes to berate and complain about how the previous tests for blood weren't good; he gave some examples of some murder cases where this discovery would have been invaluable. It was here, as Holmes was describing the details of the murder case, that Watson caught himself. For one thing, Stamford was standing to the side, trying to get Watson's attention so that they could leave; for another (and more importantly) he found himself seriously engaged in a conversation about _murder._ So he was about to stop and excuse himself when Holmes abruptly changed the subject, "but enough about that. I have something that I would like to discuss with you, Dr. Watson," and he gave Stamford a pointed look, as if _he_ were intruding on something.

"What?" Watson exclaimed more than asked.

But Holmes paid him no heed as he ushered the confused Stamford out the door and shutting it behind him.

"What on Earth do you want to discuss that Stamford cannot hear?" Watson asked, irritated.

"I want to ask you if you would like to share diggings with me on a suite in Baker Street, 221B," Holmes said, as if people offer to share the rent on an everyday basis.

"I – why would I share the rent with _you?"_ Watson shook his head, remembering how eager Stamford had been to leave when he saw Holmes. He must have known him and wished to leave as quickly as possible. He started for the door, "this is insane. I'm not sharing the rent with you and, if you'll excuse me, I have a lunch date-"

But, apparently, he was not excused, because Holmes's walking stick shot out in front of him. "Come now, doctor," Holmes said in an infuriatingly condescending manner, as if he were dealing with a difficult child, "take a moment to consider my offer, there's a good fellow. Surely it isn't as bad as being 'insane'?"

"Shockingly, I consider lodging with a man I know nothing about and have never met before as insane. Now could you please get out of my way..."

"Insane, you say? I think it is more insane to live in a hotel that you can't even afford." Watson froze and directed the full battery of his murderous eyes at the insufferable man."

But Holmes was completely unfazed and he had on a similar smile to the one he had when Watson questioned the practicality of his discovery. "You say that we know nothing of each other but that is not true. _You_ know nothing, _I_ know a great deal. I know that you lost your own board due to a fight, possibly a bar fight. Hot headed, eh? And now, as I said earlier, you are living in a hotel you can't afford and have no idea what you are going to do next. You were discharged from the army due to an injury, probably followed by a severe illness, and are currently unemployed and have no idea what to do with yourself. You, my dear man, don't have much choice here, do you?"

Watson punched him. Holmes jumped back at the last moment so the punch only nicked him. Watson snarled and tried to punch him again with his left, but Holmes ducked under it, then grabbed the arm and jabbed under the armpit. Pain exploded in the doctor's wound that hadn't fully healed yet and he barely managed to keep from shouting out. Holmes grabbed Watson's other arm and twisted, forcing the doctor to turn around, and pinned his arms behind his back. Watson was still seeing spots, and when he tried to struggle out of the man's grip, it only jarred his wound more. When Holmes spoke, he was close enough to feel his breath on his ear, sending chills down his spine, "I also happen to know that you got injured in your left shoulder, probably the reason why you were discharged in the first place, by a Jezail bullet, I assume?" He rasped, voice straining as he restrained the furious doctor, "nasty things, those bullets. They never leave your body, do they? Now, will you _please_ stop struggling, Dr. Watson, so that we can talk sense?"

" _Get off me!"_ Watson yelled, voice reaching louder levels than he had intended, spurred on by blind fury and pain.

Holmes huffed in mild annoyance, which only served to make Watson even angrier. He was going to see red, soon. The hold on Watson loosened slightly and then he was shoved forward. He whirled around, now with embarrassment added to his high strung emotions, but Holmes wasn't even facing him. He was walking away. Watson's face burned and he opened his mouth to shout something, when Holmes waved his hand without turning around or stopping. He stopped as he reach the door and looked at Watson. "I live at 118, Montague Street. Come when you change your mind."

He walked through the door and was gone. Watson cried out and ran to the door but by the time he reached it, Holmes was nowhere to be found. Stamford was nowhere in sight, either, so Watson was forced to go back to his over-priced hotel rooms.

The next day, his temper was thoroughly cooled and his pride was overpowered by common sense, so he went over to Baker Street to check out the place. The landlady was pleasant and she seemed to take a shine to him, hoping that he would take the room. Watson said that he might but he had to consider.

That was a lie. He didn't have to consider, he had to swallow his pride.

And that was the reason why Watson now stood in front of a seedy place on Montague Street – a stark contrast to his own hotel rooms – waiting for the man who had so easily and thoroughly embarrassed him, hoping to share lodgings. But Watson tried not to think about that.

Holmes appeared at the door and... looked slightly disappointed. Watson felt a pang and gritted his teeth. "Already? I thought you at least had a another day or two..." Holmes muttered to himself, before shaking his head. "Alright, give me a minute, I don't have many things to gather," and he disappeared back inside.

Holmes could not have made Watson feel worse if he had tried. Dragged his current shameful situation up to the light, as carelessly as if everyone knew it; beat him in a fight (his fighting skills were one of the few things he was good at, despite the wound) and used his wound against him; made him come to him, of his own accord, to ask to go share lodgings. Watson wasn't angry. Anger was the initial spark, the lighting of a match. After the spark it had settled into a gentle, determined flame. But the match ran out and that was when he made his decision. He wasn't even embarrassed anymore. That had died out the moment Holmes had frowned at him. Embarrassment seemed like a pleasant alternative at this point. Now, he was just empty. He had accepted his sorry state as inevitable. He was a pathetic, worthless thing that could do nothing. He couldn't even afford himself a place to live but had to rely on someone else. When a man gives up his pride, a part of him dies, whether he notices or not.

Just as he had said, Holmes wasn't late and came back outside after no more than ten minutes. Holmes called a cab and Watson didn't say anything when he said he'd pay. Holmes began to talk about how Mrs. Hudson didn't like him and would probably refuse to let him lodge at her place, even if he had the money, which was one of the reasons why he needed fellow-lodger. If she even just tolerated Watson then she should allow Holmes lodge there as well. Holmes didn't have any doubt that Mrs. Hudson would like Watson and feel obliged to let a wounded army veteran lodge to there, and Watson had been strangely quiet throughout the trip, was he sick?

Watson had only been half-listening and needed a moment to gather his thoughts in order to answer. "I'm fine," he replied. He had queer feeling in his stomach, but he was a doctor and he knew that it wasn't any symptom of illness.

By the time they arrived, Holmes was looking at the doctor curiously, as if the situation had taken an unexpected turn that he didn't quite like. Watson couldn't imagine what it was that Holmes didn't like; everything had happened as he thought, right?

Holmes knocked on the door with exaggerated movements and bounced on the balls of his feet while he waited, hands clasped behind his back. Watson stood still, leaning heavily on his stick. When Mrs. Hudson opened the door, many expressions chased each other across her face as she took in the scene: her least favorite choice of lodger and her favorite choice of lodger, standing together with expectant looks. Holmes smiled brightly and Watson's expression was neutral. After a moment of indecision, Mrs. Hudson sighed and let them in. Before Watson could take a step forward, Holmes leaped up into the doorway and waved a hand toward the inside, theatrically. "Welcome home, doctor," the madman cried with his apparently-signature manic grin. Mrs. Hudson was looking at him with trepidation.

Watson secretly wondered what he had done wrong in life, and followed Holmes inside.


End file.
